Chapter 1 #2
"I don't know, man. She didn't say, and I didn't ask. You could go ask her yourself."
Okay, then. I walk out from behind the bar. My legs just do it, carrying me toward the door. I list reasons why this is a bad idea, but ultimately ignore all of them.
The sun is lower now, shadows stretch the full length of the lot. Her door is still propped open.
Tate's in the middle of the space, hands on her hips, looking at posters spread across the floor.
I knock on the doorframe.
She spins at the sound and sees me. Her face does something immediate and genuine—lights up, opens completely, the unguarded expression of someone who has been hoping someone might stop by, and here someone finally is.
It hits me square in the chest before I can brace for it, and the floor vanishes from underneath me.
It's the same feeling you get when you misjudge how many stairs are left ahead, and your foot lands in thin air.
That shocked, slightly giddy sensation as the body regains its balance.
Except I haven't regained it. I'm still unmoored.
I have never been this close to her, ever.
The dust smudge registers first, beige paint on her right cheekbone, same color as the one on her thigh. Then her eyes, which are actually cornflower blue and not sky blue.
Tate wipes her hands on her shorts before extending one for a handshake, leaving a second streak of paint on the denim.
"Hi! I've been meaning to come over. It's been insane with the contractors; every day, there's something new going wrong.
The electrician was supposed to be here Tuesday and showed up Thursday, and then the flooring guy.
Ugh, such a headache. Anyway, I'm Tate, and you're Tom, and I'm so glad you came over because I was starting to think you were avoiding me. "
My hands stay in my pockets as I wait for her to finish. She does, eventually, slightly breathless, hand still extended. It's rude, I know, and my uncle would smack me in the head if he were still alive, but I don't accept the handshake. If I do, it might open something I'd rather keep closed.
"What are you opening?"
My question lands in the space between us.
Her hand stays out—one beat, two—and then something reorganizes behind her eyes.
Not hurt. Not flustered. Her hand drops, her smile too.
The full warmth of her welcome disintegrates into dust, and she takes a small step back and crosses her arms over her chest.
I wanted her at a distance. I came over here specifically for information, not conversation, not whatever friendly extraction she does to people.
But watching her decide, standing there, arms folded, amongst the paraphernalia of her new venture, hits me with a vibe I understand.
I feel this version of her. It sparks something small and uncomfortable in my chest. Instantly, I regret not reaching out when she offered a hand.
"A business," she says. Short sentences now, matching my energy exactly.
"What kind?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because I'm next door."
"And?"
I gesture at the posters on the floor, the neon signs, the bar stools stacked in the corner.
She tilts her head and studies me. I'm trying to figure out if she's competition or simply doesn't know what she's doing. Tate is clearly doing the same calculation about me, and neither of us is being particularly successful.
The silence stretches as her eyes move over my face.
My gaze zeroes in on the dust smudge on her cheek. I want to reach over and wipe it off with my thumb, one quick gesture, and the wanting is so specific and so unwelcome that I almost take a step back.
I don't, but it's close. My right foot moved a half inch.
Tate smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "You really want to know?"
"Yeah."
"It's a dive bar."
The words arrive and sit there. I heard her—I speak English, she spoke English—and yet my brain keeps sliding off the meaning, unable to get a purchase, because it cannot possibly be what I think it is.
She waits, pleasantly patient, while I catch up.
When I finally do, the heat in my chest is clean and immediate, anger so pure I almost welcome it because anger is familiar and straightforward and does not have opinions about her legs.
I step forward. I'm 6'5”, and most people stagger back when I move into their space, some instinctive recognition of size differential.
But Tate? She doesn't move. Not even a flinch.
"A dive bar."
"That's what I said."
"I've been running Sullivan's for five years."
"I know. I looked you up. Three-star average on Google, which is actually pretty good for the area, so congratulations on that."
Three stars. The one-star review that dragged my average down was from a woman named Mimi, who was angry about the absence of gluten-free options and a live jazz singer.
"You think you can just, what, open a bar across from mine?"
"I mean, I signed a lease, so yeah. That's generally how it works." The smile doesn't fall off her face, but her gaze is the total opposite of warm. "Competition is healthy, right? Keeps everyone sharp."
I laugh. Short, sharp, no humor in it. She smiles at the sound, and something about her smiling at my frustration makes me want to be more frustrated, which makes me more frustrated, a loop I'm stuck in while she stands there looking completely unaffected. "You'll be closed in six months."
"Maybe."
She shoves both hands in her back pockets, and the shirt pulls taut across her chest, nipples dotting the fabric. I register before I can help it. Too soon. I really need to get out of here. Too late. Blood rushes south, and I shake my head, trying to retain my wits. And my dignity.
“Then you win either way, right? Either I succeed, and we both do fine, or I fail, and you get to be right. Seems like a good deal for you."
"You know that's—" I stop. She's right, and we both know it, and I cannot finish the sentence because there's nowhere for it to go that doesn't prove her point. Of course, the nuclear third possibility is that she takes all my fucking customers and I fail.
"Look," she says, and her voice softens slightly, not condescending but something else I can't identify.
"You came over here. You could've just waved, could've been friendly, could've introduced yourself like a normal neighbor.
But you skipped all that and went straight to almost pouncing on me, so I'm not sure what you expected. "
That lands. Right in the center of my chest, where the uncomfortable thing has been sitting since her smile dropped.
I've moved into her space during this conversation. Territorial, instinctive. She hasn't backed up, though. We're standing close enough now that I can see the gold in her blue eyes clearly, can smell paint and sweat.
The wanting is still there, worse now, because she's close enough that acting on it would take almost no effort at all.
My hands clench into fists. I'm furious. I'm also aware of every inch of distance between us, the way her breathing has picked up slightly, the way mine has too. My body doesn't care that I'm in an argument. My jeans are tight again, and I'm having the worst afternoon of my month.
Tate looks at me for a long moment. Then she smiles again. "If I ever need tips on running a mediocre bar, I'll know where to find you."
Mediocre. Everything I put into those five years, every early morning and late night, every decision and sacrifice and moment of doubt I pushed through.
I spin on my heel and leave before I say something I can't walk back from.
My head aches. My hands ache. Something else aches for reasons I'm not touching. I can feel her watching, but I don't look back. Will not look back. Giving her that is not something I'm willing to do.
Jason is exactly where I left him, not even pretending to work, wearing the expression of a man who had front-row tickets to this exact show.
I pour whiskey before he can speak and drink half of it standing up.
"She's opening a dive bar," I say.
Jason goes still. Then he exhales and nods once. He knows better than to say something amusing because I really am not in the fucking mood anymore.
Tate's competition. She's a threat to everything I've built.
She's a nightmare come to life in cutoff shorts and a braless tank top.
And judging by that last smile, she already knows.